Sometimes, a woman
by Kyravalon
Summary: Emma comes back to work as a Detective in the Boston Police Department from a temporary leave due to her struggling with an anxiety disorder. She finds fresh at her desk the file for a murder case: a Mr. Gold, owner of a well known law firm in the city. The primary suspect is the CEO of the company, the widow of the victim's deceased partner, Mrs. Regina Blanchard-Mills…
1. Overture

_**Note**_

 _This has been gathering virtual dust in my fic folder for a while now, but this whole Emma-in-therapy pseudo arc that the show is pulling has made me decide to come back to it._

 _What can I say, I'm a sucker for In-Therapy!Emma._

 _Some warnings:_

 _First, when I say "freeform" in the tag, I mean it. This is not a traditional narrative piece. The idea is that the story, apart from the brief preface in the first chapter here, will be displayed through a different set of documents. Sort of. It's not really that original. I mean, it falls back pretty much to diary or epistolary genre. Though I guess an actual good example of what I intend to do (imitate?) here would be Stoker's Dracula. Kinda? Well, I just wanted to make a nice scrapbook for this story. Let's see how it turns out._

 _Second, this one is very heavy on the anxiety and the depression part. As it probably can be deduced by my previous confession of being a therapy nerd and by the plot itself. So, there's that._

 _Third, the origin of the idea dates back to a prompt game I tried to play with some friends, which never exactly fructified. The thing is the prompt generator came up with terms like murder, drinking, running… So, some sort of violence is also to be expected._

 _I purposefully choose not to detail trigger warnings, so take these previous comments in consideration, specially the one related to anxiety and panic attacks._

 _Oh, and finally. At the end of the fic I will add a final note on the, let's say, literary work that inspired both the title and a great deal of the plot for this story._

 _That's all, I think._

 _Yo, guys. SwanQueen is ours._

Let me take you to a place where an exceptional phenomenon is about to happen. Come with me to witness something unique, something rarely seen. Like an eclipse. Beautiful and terrifying and somehow persistent in its brutal fugacity.

The song sung by the swan just before it dies, exhilarant in its beauty precisely because of it.

The fascinating vibration of the crystal the instant before it explodes in a million pieces.

Everything is about to end. Everything is about to become eternal.

Let me take you, then, down this quiet street, under the orange globes of the light posts pulsing above our heads, through the streams of fog that get torn by our walk, towards the heavily ornamented entrance of the train station, with its stained glass representing a hairy black beast slain by a pale dark haired girl in a red hat, opaque and matt in the ghostly light of this early hour.

At sight, only two estranged pigeons, a roaming piece of paper, the smoke of a cigarette here and a cigar over there, and the rumble of five beating hearts.

One is buried inside a body inside a coat wrapped in coarse blankets jumbled in that corner. Another one beats its way towards the toilets. Two others cross paths and diverge, heading for exits on opposite sides. We won't see them again.

The other one is the one I wanted you to meet… Can you feel the slow, determined rhythm of it?

Let's get a little bit closer. Can you hear it know? And can you see the leaning figure that contains it?

Take a look at the solid legs, slightly flexed, one boot softly, slowly tapping the floor across the other. Notice the right hip resting against the back of the bench, almost imperceptibly pushing back and forth again. Take a look at the arms, covered in leather, crossed over the chest, one hand displaying all five long, white fingers that fall elegantly once and again over the forearm, both arms being swung by the steady breathing. And… yes… come and a look at her eyes, bright pupils throbbing at that same calm but fierce rhythm to which all her body dances.

You won't deny she's quite a vision. You won't tell me the mere sight of her isn't rather hypnotizing.

But, wait. The calm, the pattern, the flow is suddenly disrupted. Pupils grow dark, arms get uncrossed and push the back of the bench to straighten the legs, the whole body. One step. Then two, three, four… And a sudden stop.

Her lips open and move, but we can't hear the short whisper. We do discern the burning trail of her stare, though. It stretches out towards another buzzing echo, the drumming sound of a new set of hearts entering the station in this precise moment. A dark haired woman and a child are the carriers. Of the beating hearts inside each of them. Of the light travel bags, backpacked or hung over the shoulder.

They head for the waiting room at the other side of the station. Hurry, let's go with them. The child calls the woman "mommy" in a sleepy voice, his backpack almost tying him to the ground. Mommy won't let the child's hand go. And, when they're finally in the waiting room, she takes her coat off and arranges a nest of scarfs and coats and sweaters for the child.

Contain your breath, for I fear we could shatter whatever it is the spell that reigns here if we aren't careful.

The child is soon asleep. The mother sits by him for a long time. You might want to step back and leave them to their mutual company, but wait.

And listen.

The murmur we couldn't make out before is now clearly intelligible and comes from right behind our backs.

"Regina."

The dark haired woman turns around slowly, a smile spreading on her face while she stands up and gives two scarce steps towards the source of the sound.

"Emma." She says it like the breeze, like she needed to breathe it.

Both women stare at each other longingly.

And we know now that the eclipse is coming, the swan is singing, the crystal is about to be broken.


	2. A mind that won't behave

**Dr. Archibald Hopper. Police Psychologist for the Boston Police Department. Notes from the preliminary session with Detective Emma Swan. 2** **nd** **March.**

The patient was referred to my consultation by order of her direct superior, Sergeant Detective Fisher.

The patient addresses certain reluctance to seek for psychological help but admits suffering episodes of severe anxiety and panic attacks for approximately two months. She describes these as recurring (every day), increasing in intensity over time and manifesting both within the professional and personal life spheres. Physical symptoms referred by the patient: heart palpitations, muscle tension, trembling, nausea, difficulty breathing. Other symptoms: depersonalization and intense fear.

When asked for a supposed cause behind the anxiety, the patient insists on feeling an overall satisfaction with her current situation and states not understanding the source of the distress. She explicitly identifies it with "some sort of chronical sickness, like epilepsy, totally disconnected with my life".

Inquiries about her social acquaintances and relatives reveal that the patient was raised an orphan in several foster families until she was of age and joined the academy. No significant ties with people from her youth and childhood are kept currently. The patient admits having suffered a difficult and lonely childhood, but insists that she has "left all that drama behind". She declares being satisfied with her current status and stresses a sense of pride on being able to take care of herself and having become "a tough, independent person". She says she doesn't have many people in her life, but those she has, she refers to as "more than enough". She explicitly mentions her partner (Detective David Nolan) and her superior Sergeant Fisher.

Patient describes her work as demanding and hard, but doesn't think of it as a source of stress. She declares enjoying financial and romantic stability, being engaged in a exclusive relationship with the same person for more than two years. Other personal details of the patient indicate an apparent healthy and ordinary way of life: sole renter of an apartment in the city center; enjoys practicing several sports and other activities (member of an amateur drama group).

However, she expressed her worry because "nothing seems to work to sooth the horrible feelings anymore". She refers attempts to deal with the symptoms of anxiety by practicing sports or yoga, by seeking distraction in books or movies or by trying to numb her emotions through alcohol. When asked directly about it, she declares to have mentioned her current distress to only one person: Sergeant Fisher.

Preliminary diagnosis: GAD

The exploratory session ended with the usual recommendations, to reassure her that her disorder is not abnormal or infrequent and that she has already taken the first step towards feeling better. The patient agreed to come back for the first therapy session on Monday and to proceed on a bi-week basis.

I prescribed the patient with a medium dose of antidepressants (60 mg of duloxetine, daily) and timely use of anxiolitics to calm the panic attacks effects (to take when needed, no more than 2 mg of lorazepan a day).

My recommendation is to take a temporary leave, for a months, and check the patient's evolution after that time.

 **Emma Swan's personal diary**

 **16/03/02**

I'm sitting here staring at the first blank page of this stupid notebook I bought today at Papyrus. I don't want to do this. I felt sick in the line for the cashier. And so stupid, holding a journal with a pale pink cover that reads "I'm over it" in big flourished letters. I must have been taken away by an idiotic impulse to choose it, as if some insipid mantra printed on a piece of paper could indeed make things better for me.

What's funny is that the supposedly hopeful message isn't even such at the end. It turns out that the journal is scattered with illustrations similar to the one in the cover, with quotes such as "I am not a jealous person", "I'm not crying, there's just something in my eye" or "I'm almost ready". Basically, self-deprecating, ironical phrases, all of them. So, the literal sense of the title of the journal I'm about to begin states that I'm not at all over a shit.

Which is only true, after all.

I have no idea how writing about it could make me feel any better, though.

I feel almost as stupid now as when I was standing in that line like a foolish teenager.

My handwriting is a mess, jeez.

I really don't want to do this. I'm only trying because Dr. Hopper got very intense about this. Of course, I only went to see Dr. Hopper because Ingrid I-actually-think-I-am-your-mother Fisher wouldn't stop insisting.

I don't regret it, really. I feel like shit but also kinda hopeful. He said something that I've repeating like a mantra ever since: "This disorder you have is very upsetting, but it's not dangerous." It makes feel slightly less scared.

I don't know what more to say.

I hope this ends soon. I need this to end.

 **16/03/07**

I'm trembling. I'm so afraid.

Please, make this stop.

I was feeling so good. Naming this monster. Knowing it's something other people suffer, too. It helped me. And also the pills. The little white one. Dr. Hopper told me to take them only when I felt very anxious. And to take no more than two a day. And I was so happy cause I was doing so well. The first time it was like… I didn't want to, at first. Because I thought of it as a last resort. Like, if that didn't work, I would be lost. But I took it when I was coming home from the grocery and I began feeling that shitty dizziness again, drowning… I decided and I took it. And the way home was horrible. But then I made some tea and sat at the low table and cried a little and then… everything started feeling so loose. Something was lifted from my chest and my neck, I don't know. I even dozed a little. And when I woke up I watched some TV and even though my mind wouldn't stop telling me how wrong I am, I laughed at the jokes. And I slept well.

And these past days have been mostly, nearly normal. Killian and I went for beers a couple of times. I refused to go to his place though. I'm not prepared yet to stay in house with people that would look at me weird if I start acting, well… weird. And I really don't want to explain to Josy and Mike about this. I don't even like them very much. I don't want them to know. Not that I have properly told Killian either, so having a heart-to-heart convo with his flatmates about my GAD or whatever doesn't sound logical.

I was fine, though. He came home with me and he told me how happy he was to see me like my "old self". When he left for his night shift I really thought it would be another good night of sleep.

But I've woken up sweating and shouting and completely terrified and it wouldn't go. I had already taken a pill in the afternoon, so needing another one now was like a failure.

I took it anyway.

And here I am now, waiting for it to do its magic, for that feeling of relief.

I wish I could switch off my brain. This is so painful, so horrible. But I don't want to die. I am terrified of death. Death is monstrous.

I don't know I can not feel and be not dead.

I need the relief. The sky is getting cleared. The view from here is breathtaking. Sometimes the world is so beautiful that I want to cry. And then I feel a sudden calm and think that I will make it.

I treasure those moments.

If only I could have one of those just now…

 **16/03/19**

I told him. I needed to. I've always been afraid of speaking about this, as if the mere mention would unleash the monsters. The only time I tried to be moderately honest with someone about this, I ended up having a major crisis in front of Ingrid.

I was sure that with Dr. Hopper things would be the same, but in a way a didn't care that much. Cause, you know, he's a shrink. It's actually his job to witness crazy outbursts and surely I wouldn't be the first one. Curiously enough, I never experience a panic attack at Dr. Hopper's.

Somehow, dealing with this shit _verbally_ in a regular basis, in front of someone who doesn't looks weird at me and, to a point, seems to _understand_ , has broken some sort of dike inside me and now all the shit seems to want to get out. I need to talk about this. I need to name it.

I need to voice it in front of other people.

So I told him. About the seizures and the choking and the fear. The horrible, horrible fear.

And it was _fine_. He didn't freak out or anything. He was kinda relieved to know that the way I've been acting has nothing to do with him. He told me everything was gonna be ok and that he's gonna make all the crazy voices in my head disappear.

And suddenly nothing was fine. We were driving to the pub to meet Josy and the others and Ii was shouting. Like, possesed-shouting. "Take me home! Take me home!" I thought I was dying. He wanted to take to the hospital but I wouldn't let me. Somehow I felt that the only shelter would be home.

It didn't turn out that way. Of course. I started trembling even harder once here. I was so disgusted with myself I asked him to go.

So. I'm condemned. Nothing works. Shutting up about this shit doesn't work. Talking about I doesn´t work. I'm so afraid, and tired and sad.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I would like to say I didn't recognize me but I did. I know this whiney, weak, helpless mess.

I hate her.

 **Dr. Archibald Hopper. Police Psychologist for the Boston Police Department. Notes from the session of the 21** **st** **of March with Detective Emma Swan.**

Insight on possible cause of the patient's distress: she feels torn between the image of the woman she thought she was (strong, independent) and the woman she unconsciously knows she's being.

We devoted today's session to discuss the building of delusional characters about the self. The patient seemed to rationally understand that the self is not a label ("I know that thing about people not being one thing or the other, about us being complex, more than just this or that"), but still seemed to need to emotionally grasp that it's acceptable for her to show weakness and to need help, and that hiding behind the "strong and independent" tag is making her suffer.

Why is it a problem for the patient to feel weak? Why does she feel that she has to be always strong? It's logical to assume this falls back to her childhood, where she learned to avoid dealing with abandonment by pretending to be too strong to need being taken care of.

The patient has mentioned feeling now more terrified than ever. She has seen the rear between her costume and her real self. She must understand that she is not "this horrible pathetic person" either. It's very important that she doesn't build another costume on those grounds. But it's undoubtedly positive that she has identified this. Even though she feels very wounded and vulnerable now, this recognition is necessary for recovery, if she's willing to work on it.

 **Emma Swan's personal diary**

 **16/03/25**

I broke up with Killian. It wasn't nice, but it was better than I expected. I expected an outburst, I thought he would be pleading and not letting me go. But he remained calm, mostly, and even said he understands. I doubt he does. He seems to be thinking this is a temporary breakup or something, while I "sort the things in that crazy head" of mine.

Whatever.

I vomited when I came back home and had a lot of trouble breathing for a short while. But I took a magic pill of bliss and now I'm sipping at my chamomile and feeling numb but light and suddenly excited about watching the Game of Thrones Season 3 marathon they're airing tonight.

So that's what I'll be doing.

 **16/03/28**

I cried today for the first time in ages. And it was at the shrink's. The dike's broken even harder and cried like a fucking baby. The funny thing is that I didn't even feel embarrassed. At a certain moment, I've kinda had a clear image of myself sitting there with my head buried in a handful of tissues and I've told myself: "be embarrassed; you're being _so_ weak". But I was looking at Dr. Hoppers's placid smile and embarrassment never came.

Oi. I want Dr. Hopper to be my mother.

Poor fucked up orphan baby girl.

Ok, no. I mustn't say that. Dr. Hopper says I shouldn't be so hard with myself. That this isn't weakness. That even if it were, weakness does _not_ define me.

We talked costumes and all that jazz again. He said something of the sort of: "don't let yourself be hurt just for not being able to show what you so call weakness . You better accept that and deal with that feeling, instead of hiding behind your tough costume, which has obviously led you to a very delicate situation".

Which I didn't fully understand cause, precisely, I'm showing all this sick weakness . Like, I'm clearly not _unable_ to show it. It's radiating from me in huge neon capital letters.

And then he said something even weirder:

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be loved. But there may be something wrong in accepting to be degraded in exchange for it."

Which is what got me crying for 15 minutes.

At the end of the session, Dr. Hopper said he thinks I'm ready to go back to work if I feel ok with that.

 **16/03/29**

I came across a quote by Oscar Wilde today: "A writer is someone who has taught his mind to misbehave".

Ok, then. Maybe Dr. Hopper actually wants me to fix my problems by becoming a hella good writer, à la J. K. Rowling, given that my mind is probably the most misbehaving one ever.

For example, right know my mind is very focused on making me painfully aware of how improbable and difficult _breathing_ is. I'm telling it to shut up and cooperate in helping me go to the groceries without fainting or getting nuts. But my mind wouldn't listen. Not only that, but it redoubles its efforts in making me feel like shit.

So I don't know about the writing, but for sure the misbehaving mind _is_ a thing.

It's a pity to waste all this potential, actually. I don't feel like much like writing.

I haven't written anything worthy in my whole life, anyway.

 **16/03/30**

I just remembered.

Fuck.

I was in fourth grade. We had been prompted to write a short piece starting with the formula "once upon a time…". So original and non-cliché.

Anyway, the teacher had asked us to write like two pages. Most people came back with just some paragraphs noted down in a single piece of paper. But I gave her like this 20 pages long story about Snow White trying to take her kingdom back from the Evil Queen, who was a powerful witch that ended up cursing everyone in their land to another world.

The teacher made me read it in front of the class and I actually enjoyed doing so. It lasted for the whole lesson and I swear everyone was listening to every word I said.

It was a fucking awesome story.

 **16/03/31**

Tomorrow I go back to work.

 **The Boston Globe. Press clipping. 31** **st** **of March of 2016.**

Mr. R. A. Gold, co-owner, co-founder and to date the last President of Kimp Corp., has been found dead in his office, apparently victim of a brutal attack, according to testimonial sources. No more information about the incident has been disclosed so far. District A-1 of the Boston Police Department is taking charge of the investigation.

Mr. Gold first arrived to Boston from his homeland in Scotland in 1973. He devoted his first years in the city as a merchant of antiquities. In 1978, he partnered up with the philanthropist Leopold Blanchard and together they founded the lawyers' office Kimp Assesors, specialized in commercial and contractual law, which rapidly experienced a sustained growth. The firm went public in 1985, having since scored high in the stock market. The founders continued to professionally serve in the company until the very day of their respective deaths (Mr. Blanchard died of a coronary disease in 2006). They always reserved for themselves and kept the control over the capital, owning more that 30% of the share value.

The CEO position in the Board of Directors of Kimp Corp. is currently held by Blanchard's widow, Mrs. Regina Blanchard-Mills, who also owns 1% of the share capital and holds the voting rights of the stock inherited by Mr. Blanchard's daughter, which adds up to approximately 15% of the share capital.

The details of the transfer of Gold's share in the company is still unknown, although there are heavy speculations about an equitable distribution between Mr. N. Gold, the son from his first marriage, and his second wife.

The memorial service for Mr. R. A. Gold's soul will be celebrated in the parish of The Light. His widow appreciates the offers of condolence, but has stated her desire for a private event.


End file.
